


Most Wondrous Strange

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Auror Power Couple, Established Relationship, Ghost stories for Christmas - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 16:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16896225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Visiting New York, Theseus wants to investigate reports of a ghost in the ruins of a nearby church. Percival doesn't have much of a choice in joining him. What they find is something stranger.





	Most Wondrous Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Never written a ghost story before, but always wanted to try.
> 
> Warning for major character death, although it has already happened in this timeline.

The clunk of glass on wood, the liquid clear, and Percival knows that this night will not end well. The ones which start like this never do. 

Percival eyes the glass in front of him with great suspicion. Never one to take anything for granted, he's especially wary when the one bearing gifts is Theseus Scamander, a man hailing from a family which specialises in blithe smiles whilst getting away with murder. (Not that Percival is accusing them of anything substantial, he just wouldn't be surprised.) "What do you want?"

Theseus clutches a hand to his chest, roughly in the vicinity of where anatomy charts label the heart. "Have things grown so dire in our lifelong friendship that you can no longer accept the humble gift of charity?"

Percival taps two fingers against his temple as he rests his head on his hand, and simply waits.

"Society dies when trust dies, my good director. Don't you want to improve the world for our young?"

Percival does not so much as blink.

"Fine." Theseus deflates with the same level of drama as his declarations of good intentions, slumping against the bar as if his body truly cannot withstand his own bullshit any longer. "There's this old abandoned church, and I want to talk to the ghost that lives there."

Suddenly the drink doesn't just make sense, it's extremely welcome. Percival knocks back the gin as if that can drown his growing sense of despair as to his evening. Yes, he's drinking now, because that's what's expected and also drinking alone in your home is an excellent shortcut to the same downfall as any of his predecessors who lasted more than two years. However, no matter much Theseus calls him an old man and a bore and a whole host of other insults which don't really line up with how often he calls on him for sex, Percival did have plans for a chapter or two of his book and an early night. Already he isn't sure why he bothered, with Theseus in town.

Swallowing and wishing it burnt more, Percival firmly sets the glass back down on the weathered oak. "Have you lost your keys?"

Theseus rolls his eyes. "Really, Perce, that's what wands are for."

Percival's eye twitches ever so slightly before he can stop it. That's the first failure, if you don't count simply letting Theseus into the country in the first place. Technically keeping Britain's Head Auror out would lead to any number of headaches, including for himself once Seraphina generously starts passing on her pain, but at least Percival could maintain some level of the control over his life to which he's become accustomed. It's so much easier to say no to Theseus with an ocean between them.

"Regardless," he says, signalling Genevieve for a refill and then jerking a thumb at Theseus before she thinks of charging him, "why in Morgana's name would you actually _want_ to talk to a ghost?"

"Do they not have them at Ilvermorny?" Theseus actually looked a little surprised, although at this point Percival knew not to trust any hint of innocence. "Mixed bunch at Hogwarts but most of them are worth a chat. Even the Bloody Baron's good for war stories." He winces, then amends, "Well, torture stories."

An echo of landmines and bullets crosses Percival's mind, never as loud as Theseus' but more than enough. "And you wanted to listen to those?"

"I was fourteen," Theseus says, "of _course_ I wanted to listen to those. Weren't you reading...?" He screws up his face like paper, every crease making Percival's mind ache in sympathy. "The Shakespeare one with the kings and the murder?"

"If you actually listened to anything I say about Shakespeare, you'd know how unhelpful that description is."

Theseus shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, before draining his pint in a rather unnecessarily ostentatious manner for someone with an audience of one. Mercifully, none of Percival's nearby colleagues seem all that interested in eavesdropping - at least, none of the colleagues whose tells he recognises, which would be about three quarters. (The last quarter are either too disinterested or well-practised at disguising their curiosity as being too disinterested.)

It really is quite distracting, watching Theseus' throat move like that. It makes Percival need to focus very determinedly on thoughts such as whether a man could drown from drinking too much beer at once, or how Theseus even learnt to do that, and no, he’s still getting distracted. It's almost a relief when Theseus slams his glass down (or tries to – he pulls back slightly at the last minute and smiles too widely at Genevieve's glare) and turns to look him dead in the eye. "So."

"So," Percival echoes, tapping a finger against the rim of his refilled glass.

"Ghosts."

"Do not make for intelligent company."

Theseus tuts as if Percival's a schoolboy. "They're people too, Perce."

"Dead people," Percival says bluntly. "Dead people are extremely dull and they literally never go outside. They only ever want to talk about themselves. It's like one of the annual get-togethers only obsessed with vendettas from two centuries ago."

"Doesn't sound all that different from any other pureblood conversation," Theseus says with the easy smirk of someone very familiar with the cliché. Really, it's a relief the American and British purebloods tend to move in their own circles. Percival hates to imagine what might have ended up happening at, say, the Graves family's New Year's celebrations if Theseus had made it in. Certainly his father would never have allowed them to be friends if he'd had any real idea as to the personality of the 'eldest son of a respected British pureblood family'.

Trying to shake himself from nightmarish visions of his father and Theseus ever having met, Percival says, "But you avoid those like the burnings."

"I do," Theseus says with a nod. "But your run-of-the-mill pureblood isn't striking the fear of Salazar into muggles and wizards alike."

Instinctively Percival opens his mouth to point out that that's exactly what a 'run-of-the-mill' pureblood would _like_ to do, when the sense of what Theseus is suggesting reaches him. "Both?"

"Both," Theseus confirms, with a sly smirk which doesn't bode well at all. Percival knows that look. It means Theseus thinks he's winning, which is close enough to Theseus actually winning for anyone to feel nervous. "I was talking to Red in the lift and he said there have been a few wizards talking about it in the mornings. I'm surprised you haven't heard anything about it."

Percival can't help narrowing his eyes at that, even though he knows it's exactly the reaction Theseus intended. It's disconcerting, knowing someone is playing you whilst still responding. Theseus is the only one who manages it with him; Seraphina is either more upfront or far more subtle, never this sort of teasing in-between of respect and mockery. In this case, "I have rather more to worry about than trainees scared of their own shadows."

"Bit more experienced than trainees, he said. Friends of friends but nobody close enough for it to be one conspiracy. Mix of backgrounds, too."

Percival takes a slow sip of his gin, keeping his eyes fixed on the bottles of firewhiskey lined up on the other side of the bar. This really is petty, he knows that. Usually it's only the wizards from no-maj families who indulge in this sort of behaviour, remembering tales of ghosts from when they didn't believe in such things. It's also not unheard of for some departments to play pranks like this, spinning stories about alleged tip-offs from Magical Security, but those very rarely involve ghosts because they're usually too boring to scare anyone for long. Between the spirits and the portraits in the Graves mansion, Percival has a healthy respect for the knowledge of past generations but not those generations in themselves. It's his and Seraphina's shared belief that it's this sort of constant contact with the past which makes the wizarding world so painfully slow to modernise.

("There's nobody like me haunting those hallowed hallways," Seraphina had told him that first day they met, "which means I'm exactly who _should_ be there.")

So the story doesn't ring true. But then again, Theseus does have a remarkable talent when it comes to sources, and MACUSA's lift operators don't share just any gossip.

"What is it that you want to do?" No eye contact. That's important, if only for not seeing that terrifying gleam when Theseus believes that he's won.

"Nothing much," Theseus tells him, far too much like reassuring for Percival to believe him even if he didn't have the pain of many years of experience. "I want to go there, and I want to ask them some questions."

That does surprise Percival into looking at him, just to try to make sense of such an idea. "What sort of questions?" His voice is a little higher than intended, too incredulous to sound indifferent.

"Who they are," Theseus says, far too casually. "What they're doing there. Maybe why they're doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You said it yourself, Perce," Theseus says, sitting back and pushing his glass with a finger. "Ghosts are dull. I've never heard of one of these muggle 'hauntings'," he hooks his fingers helpfully around the word, "which wasn't either a fraud or evidence somebody missed. If it's a fraud, we would have spotted a mark by now, and there's definitely something going on there, so it sounds like something we should look into."

That sinking feeling is back, pulling Percival's stomach downwards. "'Definitely' because of the witnesses."

Theseus hums, bobbing his head from side to side. "That and I've been there."

He should be alarmed. Undoubtedly Theseus expects some over the top reaction, slamming his drink down or leaping to his feet. As a rule, Theseus waits for the day life will mirror one of his ridiculous romance novels. 

Instead, Percival just sighs and raises his glass. "Of course you have."

"We used to get assigned these sorts of cases all the time as makework," Theseus says. Of course: the period before the war when everybody had decided Theseus would never amount to anything more than a useful extra body. A similar attitude to those generals during the war, really. "I still cover a few when I just need to get out of the office for a night. I've only seen one or two cases which even came close to this, and they were bloody awful – bodies buried in the attic and that sort of thing."

Percival considers this. "How do you bury someone in the _attic_?"

"You don't want to know." When he starts to object, Theseus cuts him off. "You _really_ don't want to know."

He’s a little disgruntled about that – this is one of the few points where he’ll admit they’re similar, frustration at a thwarted mystery – so he can’t help it if he sounds a little petulant. "So what's different about this church? It can't be too obvious if it's still only gossip."

"I can't believe I have to tell a _pureblood_ not to underestimate gossip," Theseus mutters, as if that's the point. "I'm guessing it hasn't been going on long, so either they're a new ghost or someone woke them up. They must have been someone powerful to still have magic now, besides..." he waves his hand in the air "...you know. Still being here."

"That's it?"

"Well." Percival does feel a chill up his spine as Theseus hesitates. Theseus never hesitates. "There's this...feeling to the place. It's in ruins but nothing living will go anywhere near it. I felt wrong just looking at it from the end of the street." He sighs, eyes going somewhere far away. "The closest I can think of is No Man's Land, Perce."

Sting of smoke. Fat rats. Smell of death.

Percival drains his glass and stands. Theseus blinks up at him. "Where are you going?"

"Wherever this church is," Percival says. "Whatever you've found, I don't want it in my city."

\---

You don't have to explain to a soldier what it means for a place to feel strange. Percival would never describe himself as such, yet it's no question that the war made him aware of it. Something animal, rooted deep in the back of his mind. 

It starts three streets away: a fading in the world, sound muffling and the light leeching out. People live here, but they're not interested in spending time in the streets. There's a gaggle of children daring each other to go further past that point, jeers and shrieks and defiance ringing peculiarly. They stare at Percival and Theseus when they walk by, undermining the game. Percival ignores it, although he notices Theseus giving them a wink. The girl at the front sticks out her tongue and Britain’s Head Auror returns the favour.

"A little professionalism, please."

"Why? It's just us," Theseus points out with a grin completely at odds with the sense in the air. "Besides, it isn't an official mission. Nothing professional about it."

"I certainly agree about that," Percival mutters.

The background chatter of the kids fades away, until the only sound is their boots against the stones and their own breaths in the air. Percival realises that he already has his hand on his wand, ready. He couldn't say what exactly he's ready for, only that he can't let go. Next to him, Theseus is silent too, which is possibly even more unnerving. New York shouldn't be this quiet; New York shouldn't _echo_. This isn't London. There’s no place for gaslight penny dreadfuls here.

Then they turn a corner and his breath catches at the sight of it.

For the briefest of unpleasant moments, he remembers the ruined villages they camped in in France: the collapsed roofs, the remnants of lives long since departed. He blinks hard against the image, belonging as it does on the other side of the ocean and back into the past, yet the lines of it remain. A piece of the war transposed to his city, the last place he ever wants to see that destruction again.

Without Theseus' information, he would never have guessed this pile of shattered planks to be a church. Not just because he still associates the word with something grand and sweeping, with features like buttresses and spires, but also what he can only call the _feel_ of it, no matter how much he hates the illogic of the concept. Wizards have never been religious in the same way as no-majs (and certainly not in America), but the miasma of dust and misery hanging over this place makes Percival think of Hell. Their twin lumoses only seem to highlight the hollowness of it, deeper shadows against the night.

It's still recognisable as a building, still standing, but just the thought of going inside unsettles him. Part of it lies in rational concern, wondering just how stable the structure remains. Part of it, and he doesn’t know whether it’s truly smaller, resides in that animal again, thinking that something tried desperately to claw its way out. 

Splintered wood stabs up into the sky, and he thinks of teeth.

"Church of the Second Salemites," Theseus says, _sotto voce_.

Percival's voice comes out the same, for all that he knows it's ridiculous. Anybody could tell there’s nobody to hear them. "How do you know?"

"Asked around. Nobody wanted to talk much about it, though. Lots of signs of the cross and all that." Theseus helpfully sketches a shape in the air, as if Percival doesn't know full well what a cross looks like. He opens his mouth to say as much, when the wind interrupts him, a strange howl despite only the slightest touch. He can hear something fluttering; his eyes catch movement inside of the half-shattered windows, and his first thought is of those ridiculous sketches of ghosts he sees in no-maj papers, flowing material and not much else. 

Then the flash of white comes loose, tumbling and twirling through the air and finally coming to rest right at their feet.

_Witches Walk Among Us!_

It's just a piece of paper. 

Both aurors recoil; both aurors have their wands ready.

The word that's been itching at Percival finally registers. "Salemites?" Theseus slowly bends down to pick up the paper, not even checking for curses because he's a brave idiot. "Witch hunters?"

"Looks like it." Theseus turns what seems to be a pamphlet over, lip pulled to the side in unquestionable disgust. "Not even that much mention of God. Just the Devil."

"Welcome to America." As much as he appreciates a clue, Percival finds he has no interest in looking any closer at this one. You get pockets of anti-wizard rhetoric amongst the no-majs in every country; if you're lucky, it's only small. The new aurors under Percival usually get landed with investigating any who seem like threats, if only because it's a good way of assessing exactly what kind of person they are. 

There was one a year or two ago, the unfortunately named Judas A. Rimmer, who reported every single mention of witchcraft with wide fervent eyes until Percival was forced to advise him that a little less eagerness would still be plenty. Because MACUSA laws have never changed unless they have to, such reports always entail mountains of paperwork, and the entire department was grinding to a halt. Thank Morgana Rimmer took an advised transfer down to the Wand Registry, where people expected that kind of attention to the full letter of the adminstrative detail.

Now, looking at the ripped paper which couldn't have been here that long, Percival wonders if they might have lost more than time in that pile-up.

"No dunkings," Theseus says, "maybe they're learning." If he intended it as a joke, it just falls flat into that eerie silence.

Trying to push thoughts of rushed bureaucracy out of his mind, Percival steps around him, closer to the church. The wind picks up again, stronger now, like fingers plucking at him. Nothing haunted about the wind, Percival reminds himself, but buttons his coat against it regardless.

Despite the shattered state of the place, the door stands firm before him. There's nothing inviting about it, though. Whatever happened, it wasn’t about getting out.

"After you," a voice says by his ear, and he flinches, spinning around with his wand ready. Theseus looks rather startled.

Before that surprise can bleed into amusement, Percival clears his throat and says, "I insist."

Theseus shifts on his feet, eyes flicking between Percival and the church, before exhaling and nodding as he moves forwards.

No wards on the church. No shields. When Theseus pushes at the door, the wood simply gives way with a loud creak. Disuse, no doubt, and nothing more ominous than that. Percival follows him close behind, not keen to let him out of his sight for even a second. He's not sure what's going on here, but he's extremely grateful Theseus didn't come here alone. 

Their lights precede before them, Theseus ushering his high up whilst Percival keeps his close. The darkness stretches around them, outlining broken furniture in a wide space, wood hanging from one side like a gaping mouth with a staircase tongue lolling out. Not all the windows are broken, he sees, although given New York they don’t let much light in, only cold. Even in a coat well-charmed for warmth, he can feel a proper river chill eating into him. He could do without the added atmosphere of their breath in the still air.

At first he thinks there’s the outline of a body, or possibly several. When he steps closer, though, walking a perimeter with his light before him, he can see it’s just cloth, ripped to shreds and strewn around the sides, some threads glimmering faintly as he passes by. Strange. 

Most abandoned buildings are only abandoned by humans. Percival's visited plenty in his time, attracting as they do every sort of secret gathering and criminal in search of a hideaway. This deep in the city, there should be rats; perhaps a stray cat defending its territory; certainly traces of the thousands of pigeons which reside in New York as resolutely as any citizen. Even knowing that others have been here in just the last few days, he’d be hard pressed to see any evidence, as if it’s been firmly swept away. He wouldn't call the insides of this place spotless by any means, strewn with settled dust and splinters, but it's plain to see that nothing calls this place home.

He can see that someone used to, though. There's a table down the middle, with plates of mould which he thinks used to be bread. Another unnerving sight in this city: food left long enough to rot. There are more pamphlets too, a different design but even clearer in their allegiances: _Beware the Devil's Servants!_ Most are scattered across the floor, but presumably that number started in piles, ready for distribution.

Something creaks, then abruptly gives way behind him. He looks around sharply to see Theseus wincing guiltily, reaching out towards something that might once have been furniture. "Sorry," he whispers. "Just trying to get to that door."

Percival shakes his head, stepping back to watch Theseus move through to another, smaller, room – a kitchen, from the looks of it. Of course, Theseus being Theseus, he's touching everything: trying drawers, opening cupboards, pushing bric-a-brac to the side without a mind for the noise. Perhaps it's just Percival, but it feels like the church itself is stirring in response: something building up, oppressive. 

Carefully Theseus lifts the lid of a pot on the stove, then recoils with his sleeve over his nose.

"Not hungry?"

The expression Theseus flashes him does not look amused in the slightest. Percival would laugh if he didn't feel that something close by wouldn't appreciate the sound. Then Theseus' gaze slides past him, and he frowns.

"What is it?" Percival turns but he only sees the front door standing open, a merciful reminder of an easy escape. He just wishes there were streetlights outside.

"Doesn't close." Percival looks back, and now Theseus looks rather more tense. "People said they'd been in here, and they left scared." He swallows. "I don't know about you, but when I'm scared enough to talk about it in the lift the next day, I don't bother closing the door after me."

It isn't that Percival considers Theseus fearless. They've shared all of their thoughts, through letters and over terrible drinks and sheltering in dugouts. Theseus gets scared, it's just that the rest of his emotions usually override it. That’s why Percival has to be the sensible one.

He clears his throat. "It's not a revelation that there's a ghost." Something creaks overhead. Both of their heads snap upwards, but there's nothing. If only Percival could believe it was a pigeon. "We know there's someone here." A rather unpleasant thought occurs to him. "Or something."

"Ghosts don't close doors," Theseus says slowly, "not usually. Incorporeal and all that. This is something big, whatever it is."

Percival wets his lips, weighing up the benefits of calling the investigation off until they have reinforcements. If nothing else, he would definitely feel better for someone else knowing where they are. Unfortunately, so far they have absolutely nothing other than an odd feeling and some elevator chat. This isn't even a mission; it's a favour agreed at a bar. It's nothing.

"I need a minute."

Sighing, he moves towards the door. He's letting himself get intimidated by echoes and ruins, as bad as a greenhorn. Any ghost would have shown itself by now. As dull as they are, they're also desperately lonely things. Ghosts make contact even when the living wish they wouldn't; that's the way of the world. Morgana knows there was very little idea of privacy in the Graves mansion without some knowledge of how to block the incorporeal. Something definitely happened here, and they'll do better if they gather their wits and stop jumping at shadows.

The door slams shut before him.

Percival freezes. He can feel Theseus’ back against his own in the same instant, no doubt scanning the room behind him. "Anything?"

"Nobody."

It’s just a door, he tells himself. They’re not that hard to open. 

He takes a step forwards, and a chair lying on its side scrapes across the floor to block his path.

Deep breaths, in and out. Slowly he reaches out to pull it out of his way. The wood feels normal enough under his fingers, cheap and worn, but the thing stubbornly refuses to move – that is, until he tries to step around, and it follows like a stubborn child.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters, now waving his hand to the side. The chair resists his magic just for a second, enough to prove something truly is holding it there, before flying off sharply into the far wall and crumpling to the ground.

Theseus says something in response, something about _dramatics_ like the hypocrite he is, but it's drowned out by a loud crash as the entire table in the centre tips onto its side, sending crockery smashing to the ground and papers flying into the air. Uncannily fast, it slides across the ground, filling their ears with wood scraping across stone until it slams across the exit.

Still nobody and nothing to be seen.

"I can move that too," he says into the dim light.

Theseus' hand on his shoulder. "Or we could try to figure out what's going on here."

The church settles around them once more, a thousand faint creaks in the wake of that one crash. Percival tries not to think of it as exhaling. Both of them stand perfectly still (something of a miracle in itself for Theseus), until that silence falls again: suffocating, rendering their breaths too loud, too desperate.

"I think that's it for now," Theseus whispers, then winces. Nothing responds, though, and he exhales heavily, visibly relaxing. "Okay. We’re still calling this a haunting?"

"If you can't think of a creature capable of this."

Theseus' mouth twists from side to side. "Can't think of anything," he says slowly, as if he’s trying to read off of a page inside his head. "There might be one which moves things with its mind? But otherwise… Invisible would be a demiguise, which couldn't move the table like that, and lethifolds aren't that interested in theatrics."

Percival raises an eyebrow. "That's what you call that?"

"Compared with enveloping and devouring us?" Theseus shrugs. "Yes?"

Shaking his head, Percival turns to scan the area. Nothing else disturbed, from the looks of it. Entering now, they'd think things had always looked like this. "This is what your brother does?"

"Breaking into houses looking for trouble? Basically."

Never having met Theseus' brother, Percival doesn't know if his image of a wild-eyed librarian is accurate. It's hard to reconcile the old accounts from their schooldays of a quiet boy devouring books far beyond the norm for his year with Theseus' panics about dragons and nundus and any number of other deadly beasts. Still, he supposes it suits someone related to Theseus. The passion as much as the inborn criminality.

Moving away across the space, Theseus taps his wand carefully against the stairs curving upwards on the far side. "Just checking," he says, setting his foot on the first step, and then the next. Percival doesn't blame him: given the landing above them has half-collapsed, the rest might be soon to follow.

He’s about to join him when his shoe bumps against something more solid. It's a piece of wood, one of the many splintered pieces scattered across the floor. It's all too easy for them to blend into the tattered state of things, another part of the scenery. Except if they assume it's a ghost...

"What do you think happened here?"

Theseus pauses, still resting his hand on the banister. "The ghost or the church?"

There had been debris all over the table, now strewn across the floor; very little deeper into the church, under the landing. "Both."

"Could be anything." Percival slowly paces it out, where the pieces start and end, all the while glancing back up at the remnants of the landing as he listens to Theseus’ own musings. "But we've got a group which persecutes witches, and a ghost who has magic – "

Abruptly the steps give out. Theseus just barely breaks his fall, knuckles white on the banister as his leg vanishes under him. Wrenching it back up, the moment he has his balance he scrambles for the top of the stairs, a moment before the next step cracks down the middle.

"Theseus?" Percival shouts, his heart in his throat.

"I'm okay," Theseus wheezes in reply. Percival can just see his shoe tipped to the side and can picture the rest of him easily enough, lying flat on his back. "Just...wasn't expecting it. That's all."

Muttering a curse to himself, Percival turns in a cirle, looking for anything out of place. Something catches his eye, in the window next to the smashed stairs: a shape in the reflection, there one second and gone the next. Dark, and almost human.

He narrows his eyes. Moving until he's almost under the stairs (already poised with _protego_ on his lips), he can see that he was wrong. The step didn't give way. By the light filtering through the holes, he can see that they're much bigger than Theseus' feet. Something rammed right through, the wood hanging in tatters all around.

As much as he dislikes the thought...why didn't it attack Theseus directly?

He doesn't realise he's spoken aloud until he hears Theseus mutter, "So sorry to disappoint you."

"You said we needed to understand."

"Feeling a little less understanding right now." If Theseus can complain, then there's nothing to worry about. Probably just embarrassed now. Percival allows himself a quick smile.

Now he’s even more certain he's right though. "You might want to move to the side," he says, retreating to the centre of the room, positioning himself roughly where the table stood.

"What are you doing?" Theseus asks, voice incredibly wary even as he obeys.

Quietly, Percival says, "Testing a theory." Then he draws his wand through the air, encompassing the entire space, before finishing with it pointed at the landing. " _Reparo_."

A shiver runs through the building. At first that's all the response he gets. Then, slowly at first but picking up speed, the shards of wood begin to rise up off the ground. They move gracefully through the air, merging together, joining to form planks and bars as they assemble against the landing, linking with its own wounds, completing it.

For a breath, it stands as it did before. Scraps of fabric swoop in from the corners of the church, from the piles he dismissed before. As they knit together, their dusty grey glows red and gold and black. Percival swallows at the design they reveal: two hands, and a broken wand. He can see it, in his mind's eyes: the same image repeated, never far from view, and there, where someone could watch over you at the table. Always watching. The fear of knowing.

It hangs for just a second, full and complete. Then, abrupt as a scream, that howl sounds again, the wind turned higher, louder, and full of pain. Human, if a human could ever make such a noise. In an instant, the banner rips down the middle; in the next, the floor explodes outwards once more. Distracted by his thoughts, Percival barely raises his shield in time. The wood slices at it in a thousand daggers, but that's nothing compared with the sheer force behind it. His feet skid back about a foot before he can finally brace himself.

Just as suddenly as it came, it passes. The storm subsides, and they’re alone in an empty building. Or so it seems.

The air is filled with sawdust, thick enough that Percival can feel it settling on his skin. He blinks once to keep his eyes clear, and twice when he thinks he sees something moving against the absentminded current in the air: a shape, too large to be a stray breeze. He reaches out, but it reaches the edge of stairs, he has to blink again, and it's gone.

He can't be certain he saw anything.

He exhales, and the dust moves just as much.

Then he remembers. "Fuck." And he's running for the stairs, leaping up as if that would stop anything truly determined to bring him down. They stay solid underfoot though, even around the wounds, and he breathes again when he sees Theseus still sat against the wall, safe. "Any of it hit you?" he asks, more expecting his friend to snap at him and restore some kind of normality to all of this.

Instead, Theseus is rubbing his wrist and staring oddly towards one of the doors further back.

"Theseus?"

"Hmm?" Theseus looks round and up at him, frowning as if confused to see him there.

A little concerned now, Percival crouches down next to him. "Are you all right?"

"Not sure." Theseus' eyes drift off to that door again. "I thought I saw..." His fingers curl in the air, as if catching hold of something, and his face is so much more distant than Percival is used to. The disquiet settles in his stomach, even after Theseus abruptly shakes his head and practically jumps to his feet. "Never mind. Ghosts. It happens."

Percival really isn't certain what that means. He's tempted to push, but Theseus is already walking away. Whoever or whatever is in here, it's not like anything he's ever encountered before. As he told Theseus not so long ago in the bar, ghosts aren't supposed to be like this. Ghosts are supposed to be unbelievably _dull_.

Their lumoses have gone out, he realises now, somewhere between the spells and the destruction. Theseus moves easily though. When Percival takes a few stumbling steps, a light flickers to life beside him, and all the rest along the walls, one by one, regular enough that he can picture the easy motion of it. 

The door creaks open under Theseus' touch. Percival hears the man curse, followed by something like "please don't be a five year old girl" as if that makes any sense – that is, until he crossed to look inside the room himself, and isn't sure if he feels ill or just sad.

It's a child's bedroom. That much, at least, is obvious. It's far too small, even by his limited experience, everything squashed together: a bed with little room to grow, a chest of drawers directly opposite, piles of the kind of bric-a-brac children acquire through one means or another. What draws his attention, however, is the alphabet hanging on the wall. A litany of sins and threats. The sort of thing he hasn't seen since History of Magic lessons at Ilvermorny.

Underneath what looks like a mere pile of rags and buttons until Theseus picks it up. Something breathes behind them, but Percival finds he’s no longer surprised to turn to find nothing there. Theseus doesn't even move, mouth drawn downwards. The thing flops over the edge of his hand, really not that big to a grown man. It takes Percival far too long to realise it's supposed to be a doll – a doll for a child with very little else.

"Where do you think she is?" Theseus asks, voice far too small for someone usually so large.

Percival hesitates, not sure whether Theseus is just avoiding the obvious answer.

"It's not her."

"I didn't say it was."

"No." Theseus actually _glares_ at him. "The ghost. It's not her."

Frowning, Percival asks, "What makes you so sure?"

"I – " Theseus presses his lips into a line, one hand clenching into a fist, the other still cradling the doll. "I don't know whether I saw anything, not _exactly_ , but – " His mouth shapes words Percival can't make out. "I _felt_ something. Against my arm, someone – " He holds up his wrist – the same one he was cradling when Percival found him. "I felt someone touch me. And then I thought I saw the air move, and I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous, only this door moved too and I just – " He presses that hand against his chest and sighs. "I don't know what's happening here, Perce, but it's nothing good."

For a moment all Percival can do is stand there, staring at him. Theseus doesn't crack that easily under pressure. If anything, it's boredom that gets to him, leaving him a mess of twitches and crumpled pieces of paper. He saw it plenty of times during the war, how times like this produce an almost eerie focus in those indolent eyes. Now, though, he looks more distressed than anything else. That, more than anything else, convinces him.

"You think the ghost wanted you to find that?"

Theseus gives him a very unimpressed look, so Percival just returns his gaze, as steadily as he can. Then he sighs, looking down at the doll again, as if his eyes keep getting dragged back down to it. "Honestly? I think they were going somewhere safe."

"This is safe?" Even as Percival says it, Theseus jerks, and this time Percival feels it too: something passing, a brush against his arm as if something pushed past. As one, they find themselves on their knees by the bed. Percival braces himself on the mattress but Theseus follows the movement further, peering underneath.

Drumming his fingers against the blanket, Percival counts silently under his breath. It's only as the surprise passes that he notices how well made the bed is. Mercifully he has very little experience with small children, but that seems very odd. Either a very strict house or someone has been looking after the bedclothes.

"I think this was her secret stash," comes Theseus' voice from below the bed. "Anything she didn't want people to find." His head emerges, shaking cobwebs free, and then his free hand, now holding a small box. He tries it, laying the doll carefully against the pillow, but the lid doesn't shift. 

He pauses, frowning, and then holds it overhead. "Care to help?" When nothing happens, he just shrugs. "Worth a try."

It's something of a relief to find that the box looks very normal indeed. It’s exactly the kind of small wooden keepsake you might expect to find, free of ominous messages or banned symbols. It's barely the size of the doll – hence, he supposes, why the doll was left on the shelf.

"That's what it wanted us to see?"

Theseus lifts it closer, peering. "Possibly? Or maybe – " He frowns. "That – what we both did. Maybe they were remembering something?"

This doesn't match any case Percival has ever heard of. More than that, the idea of something controlling his body makes his skin crawl. "I was following you."

"Really?" Theseus looks a little surprised, although there’s far more scepticism in the way his eyes narrow. Percival keeps his face blank, if only because he doesn't know what happened either. After the fact, he finds it's hard to say what he was thinking. Highly unpleasant indeed.

Pushing himself to his feet with all the purpose he can muster, he turns back towards the landing. "One room down. Maybe the others will have some answers."

Two more doors. The first reveals another bedroom, belonging to someone older judging by its neat lines. Any signs of the occupant are few and far between: a hairbrush resting on a shelf; an embroidered Bible quote, judging by the phrasing: _Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy_.

"Doesn't seem in keeping with the rest," Theseus observes, picking it up to squint at it. As ever, Theseus never can resist touching things. It makes Percival a little nervous after the show downstairs. If they are dealing with a person, or an entity which used to be a person, it’s already shown itself to be more than a little volatile. Still, there’s none of that brimstone taste to the air, of hostility like the arched back of a cat. It still isn’t warm, but these rooms feel more settled, a sensation akin to a well-thumbed page in a favourite book.

When Theseus puts the frame down, Percival automatically pushes it back into alignment. That seems important in this bedroom. "Their own way of rebelling, perhaps."

Theseus looks at him, eyebrow raised. "With ... Bible quotes," he says slowly.

Of course. From everything Percival's heard, the Scamanders are almost painfully supportive – or distant, which amounts to the same thing in Percival's experience. Freedom to grow as you will. "You adapt to what you know."

An awkward silence falls. Unsurprisingly, Theseus is the first to break, coughing and withdrawing into the hallway. Percival can hear his steps creaking away to the other door. His first instinct is to follow, maintaining a line of sight at the very least. However, he realises something off about the embroidery. All he sees here is careful regimented neatness, not unlike his own room in the mansion. The child next door must have been the baby, to get away with pushing everything under the bed like that. This one controlled everything. 

The embroidery is crooked in its frame.

Carefully he pulls away the back, and something clatters onto the floor. 

A key: small, unremarkable, forgotten.

He expects another one of those ghostly breaths at the disturbance. However, the room stays still around him. More than that, he realises, the air lacks that heaviness. He's alone in here, truly.

Sliding the key into his pocket, Percival replaces the frame, making sure this time it lines up perfectly. Somehow he feels it's the least he can do, for a witch-hunter who believed in the quality of mercy.

Outside, he can already hear Theseus rummaging through the last room. Clearly more possessions in there – the pastor's, he assumes, or the priest or whoever they had here. Presumably the ghost has followed him in there. Percival’s about to join him himself, when he notices the ladder standing next to the door. Strange thing to have in a church, he thinks, and particularly upstairs.

It takes a few steps, but then he sees it: the trapdoor. Of course, the attic. Although that doesn’t explain the ladder standing several feet away.

The wood's cool under his palm. Close by, the air is trembling, although he isn't sure whether it's him or Theseus disturbing the peace this time. There's a tension to everything, the world pulling tight. "Have you found anything?" 

"Oh, plenty of unpleasantness," Theseus says, accompanied by a dismissive flutter of paper. "She realised dunking was inefficient, and that's the best thing I can say about her."

"Her?"

Theseus' head appears through the open doorway, and it's only experience which stops Percival from taking a step back. Theseus has always lost his temper fairly easily; it's one of the many reasons working with him can be tiring at the best of times. The anger usually passes quickly though, flashing through like lightning. It's rare to see his face drawn into these hard lines of pure loathing: as if burning everything wouldn't be enough for him.

"Mary Lou Barebone," he hisses, venom in every dragged out syllable. "I found some of her notes. If she's lucky, she's already dead." Percival blinks: not at the sentiment, but by how seriously Theseus says it. "You know what I think? She found a witch, or a wizard – a real one. Everything she wanted." The doors to the children's rooms slam shut; the ladder falls to the ground. Neither of them so much as flinches. Theseus doesn’t quite let out a growl, but it seems a close-run thing, and he stalks back inside the room with his shoulders hunched high.

Percival doesn't follow. Never mind the ghost, he's not sure he wants to be in there with Theseus as he finds all this.

Besides. He looks at the ladder again, lying on the ground, and his jaw firms.

It slides into place easily; the trapdoor is mercifully not locked, so Percival doesn't have to risk the magic provoking another response. If the ghost was a wizard captured by this Barebone woman, perhaps they dislike the reminder of why they died. It doesn't quite line up but it's the best he has to go on.

At first, the attic is almost disappointing. As much as Percival doesn't buy into Theseus' flavour of entertainment, he still finds with displeasure that he’s formed a notion of the attic of a haunted house, if only that it should look like his own. It's almost too small up here for any real atmosphere. It's cramped, dominated by rafters, with the standard array of junk looming out of the shadows. No reason why she would have the ladder by her bedroom, unless none of them ever bothered to use the space. There are no lights up here, leaving him squinting for any kind of clue. Glancing downwards despite knowing he won’t see anything, he raises his wand to fill the space with soft light. As expected, there are boxes, half-burnt candles, a mattress, a – 

He stops. Properly hoists himself in, and takes a closer look.

Calling it a mattress insults the word. If anything, it's a slightly thicker blanket, with something thin and ragged tossed over the top. The pillow barely gives way under his fingers, it’s so close to the floor. And yet, looking at how everything is arranged – somebody _slept_ here. As much as he wants to believe it was a temporary refuge for someone in need, he thinks of that ladder, and he doubts. The boxes nearby are lined up, with child's drawings and a copy of the Bible resting on top.

He imagines being trapped up here. Never in control of when you could come or go.

Crouching down closer, he notices dark brown stains on the mattress, the floorboards. Already fearing what he'll find, he presses his fingers against them. It's been a while, but he'll always recognise blood.

There's a hand next to his on the floor.

Slowly Percival becomes aware of something settling over the world: a calm acceptance, a numbness to everything. There's a shape kneeling next to him: a cloud of darkness, like a wound in the world. The mass constantly shifts, sometimes shaping a leg, a head, but always the hand pressing against the blood. Percival think he should be scared, perhaps. He’s not.

He reaches out. The cloud ripples, but doesn't pull away. His fingers almost go numb from the cold as he touches, yet he holds firm. It feels important, somehow. The shape begins to settle into something almost human, and he realises he's touching its cheek. It turns towards him, reaching out as his breath hangs white in the air. The cold sinks into him, but also something desperate. There's the fear from before, the flashes of anger, but now it's mixed with a loneliness which sinks deep into his bones along with the chill.

It's right there, in front of his face. He thinks about being trapped, so scared, and the image skips through his mind of wondering whether it freezing to death would be peaceful. In dreamlike response, he thinks of hot fires, and, when the cloud flinches, he thinks of Theseus. Warm; loving.

His eyes slide shut. Somewhere in that darkness, there's something white, coming closer.

They're so close that it rips through him too: a sudden tearing, a hole, a wound right through him. He collapses forwards, grasping at his chest, as the ghost rears back, anything human vanishing into that mass and then surging through the floor. Suddenly he's just cold, frost flaking off from his fingers. Suddenly he's afraid again.

Through his whirling thoughts, a wailing sounds out, as the floor shakes underneath him. As soon as he can form the picture clear enough, he's apparated down to the next level. His hands are shaking and he can hear Theseus shouting over and over, the same thing: “I’m sorry!”

It's a struggle to reach the door, clinging to the doorframe as air rises to a scream. There are patches of that darkness whistling by, splashing against the walls whilst tendrils catch at Percival’s skin. Without the distance of before, he just feels the pinpricks of cold, unsure of whether they’re clinging to him or trying to pull him back. 

Theseus is pressed against the wall. "What did you do?" Percival demands.

Despite the wind tearing at them, Theseus raises his eyebrows at him, incredulous. "I didn't do anything!"

"Clearly that's not true!"

Percival raises his arms, trying to think of any kind of spell to calm this, but a hand closes around his forearm and forces it down. "Magic sets him off!" Theseus screams in his ear, as if Percival hasn’t realised that already. At the word, the whole wardrobe creaks and falls face first onto the floor. Percival snatches at him, but Theseus is gone, scrambling forwards even as the whirlwind builds. He snatches something up from the floor and the wind drops, just for a second, before exploding outwards. Percival is thrown into the corridor; lies stunned before he can spring back to his feet. A spell comes to his lips, but Theseus cuts him short again, this time by lurching out into him.

"What's happening?"

Theseus presses something leather into his hands. Just like that, the noise stops, as abrupt as falling underwater. All around them, the church is shaking, but they're caught in the eye of the storm.

He looks down, and his stomach lurches.

It's a belt.

"I don't understand," Theseus says, but Percival does. He thinks of that mattress, the ladder dragged across the floor, the dark brown stains.

"There was a third child," he says quietly. "In the attic."

"What do you mean, in the – " Percival sees the moment the knut drops, Theseus' eyes suddenly going wide. "That _bloody_ \- "

Percival steps back, the belt clear between them. The wind staggers and moans, pulling back and away. Retreating. Terrified.

Theseus' face twists in hatred, and he rips the belt clear, hurling it away from them. It skids across the ground, the wind dying in its wake even as it picks up at their backs, yanking and ripping at clothes and hair. 

"Incendio!"

The leather catches in an instant, vanishing into the white hot flames pouring from Theseus' wand. Percival tenses, ready for the attack, but then he remembers that ice-cold touch against him, and a blaze bursts forth from his magic too. 

The screaming is building up again, and the fire suddenly leaps past them, into Mary-Lou's room. In an instant Percival can feel the heat of it; pushes Theseus forwards just as it explodes out again. The wind catches it, spins it across the floor. The storm becomes a maelstrom, with the two of them caught in it. They stumble towards the stairs but that wood finally shreds before their eyes, crashing into walls and furniture alike.

Percival can't get to his wand again, but Theseus is already holding onto him, close enough that his eyes fill Percival's vision. The flames are clear in the hazel, and so is the fear.

Theseus feels fear - always has done. 

But he acts anyway. 

And the church vanishes.

Outside on the street, they have barely a moment to catch their breath before the roof goes, light and heat climbing straight up into the sky in the way nothing natural should. Theseus staggers, coughing, but Percival grips his arm tight. "Nobody dies," he says, with all the strength he can muster, and raises his wand.

They can't save the church: it was already a ruin, and from what he's seen, Percival doesn't think it deserves to survive. The shield is to stop the fire from spreading.

The flames fight back, even stronger than when the landing exploded in front of him. The mind guiding them pushes so hard against him, stretching the shield as far as it can. From panic, he now only feels fury. The urge to destroy; to devour.

Theseus' magic joins him, sure as hand in hand; together, they fight the whirlwind.

Unable to reach the other buildings, the inferno surges up and up, higher than Percival has ever seen. Then, in a last gasp, it collapses inwards. The two of them just barely contain the force of it as everything blasts out to the sides: stone, wood, fire.

And then the life goes out of the place. Where once towering flames stood, now there are only smouldering embers; now, charred wreckage.

Theseus collapses to the ground. Percival joins him, rather more gracefully. Together, they watch the ashes begin to swirl inside their containment as the howl dies away.

Listening to the crackle of the heat, Percival sees Theseus pull something from his coat pocket: the small box. "All that's left," he says.

Percival chuckles and produces the key. Theseus stares at it, then shakes his head slowly. "You absolute bastard."

It fits, clicking easily to the right.

Percival isn't sure what he expected to see inside, but the folded paper surprises him. Carefully, reverently, he draws it out and unfolds it to reveal a child's drawing. Three stick figures together, in front of the house that only exists in drawings. The figures are holding hands and smiling under a yellow sun, and each of them is labelled: Modesty in the middle, to her right Chastity, and to her left, Credence.

Theseus' fingers brush over the third name. "Credence," he says softly.

Percival doesn't question it. He can already feel the rightness of the name. "He grew up there. Right under her nose."

"I think she noticed," Theseus says with disgust. "She just thought she could fix him."

Percival looks at him sadly, already seeing the way his hands are shaking. He remembers the chilled cloud in the attic, all that loss looking for something to touch. He wonders what Theseus felt – Theseus, who always feels so much more than him. 

When Percival’s hand touches the small of Theseus’ back, Britain’s Head Auror lets his head fall onto MACUSA’s Director’s shoulder. Breathing seems all the effort they can spare.

Eventually, when their mutual shield falls and the rubble remains unaltered, Percival is the first to push himself back to his feet. Theseus accepts his hand without a word, only swaying a little as he stands. Folding the drawing closed, he slips it into the box and holds it out. 

“You found it.”

“You found the key.” Theseus shrugs. “I’m not the sentimental type.”

Percival can only see the tired lines in a face which was alight with Theseus’ usual fire even half an hour ago. “You think I am?”

“I think I need another drink.”

\---

Percival couldn’t say if the last of it was pure fancy, or something deeper.

He’s almost at the end of the street when he realises that Theseus isn’t with him. He looks back, cajoling words ready on his lips, but they die unspoken: not just at the sight of Theseus still standing there, gazing at the ruins with an expression quite unlike him, but also the way the smoke is curling towards him, so that you could almost picture a hand, a curve of a neck, a person reaching out from the wreckage.

Slowly, Theseus extends his hand – and then the wind abruptly picks up, kicking garbage up from the sidewalk and ashes through the air, and the maybe-figure blows away with everything else.

Theseus is left staring down at his hand, fingers curling in that strange possessive gesture as if he really is holding something this time. He places it in his pocket so carefully, so gently, and then paces towards Percival without looking back.

“Come on,” he says as he passes, never pausing, “I need to get away from here.”

And Percival could swear something in his voice has changed.


End file.
